


Aflutter

by witchkings



Series: Of Butchers and Birds [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Birthday, Fake Dating, Fancy dinners, Fluff, Jaskier's family, M/M, Smut, excessive bird imagery, geralt has a lot of feelings, rich!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: Geralt shook his head. He almost had an urge to laugh, this was ridiculous. He was no society man. Fine dinners and eligible ladies were so far out of his area of expertise that he had half a mind to walk out the door and be done with it. But that would be the equivalent of leaving Jaskier for the wolves to devour. Etiquette and manners, Geralt failed at. Possessive aggression he could do. After all, he was a man in love, no matter how much it pained him to admit this.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Of Butchers and Birds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886164
Comments: 28
Kudos: 390





	Aflutter

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing started with me obsessing over the museum owl in Animal Crossing and ended in nearly 10k of annoyed and emotional Geralt in distress. Hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> Based on the show and some details I've taken from reading the first two books.
> 
> Edit (19-08-2020): Ahhh this fic hit over 300 Kudos which is just insane to me. Thank you for reading and commenting and liking everyone, it means so much to know that people out there enjoy this story as much as I did. Because some of you have been commenting on some open-ended story threads and because I felt inspired, I decided to write a sequel which should be up soon. Check it out if you want to :)

Geralt had hit a roadblock. Not a literal one exactly, and not one he couldn’t work through, but one that annoyed him, nonetheless. After wiping out a trio of graviers, a nasty type of ghoul whose bites were toxic, and turned one’s skin necrotic, Geralt had spent days in a haze. He had been careful, dammit, he was always careful. But not enough. It was that stupid voice in the back of his head, that voice that chirped and twittered away, sang songs he hated and recited poems he had no use for. It was Jaskier’s voice, and it was with him even when the bard was not. For what reason? Well, fuck, but Geralt had a nagging suspicion and wasn’t keen to investigate it.

It had been five years of traveling on and off with Jaskier, five years of Toss A Coin To Your Witcher and the collected ballads on the White Wolf of Rivia, five years of getting the bard out of trouble and himself into it, five years of payments in coin and recognition and chamomile massages. Five years wasn’t a long time in Geralt’s book, but it was enough to get used to someone. And he had gotten used to Jaskier so much that his absences were more pronounced than his presences. So, Geralt’s brain filled them for him. Where before there had been focus, there was now distraction. Where they had been blissful silence, there was now a constant replay of Jaskier’s latest song.

Which meant that, when the graviers had charged at him, Geralt had hesitated for a split-second too long as he wondered whether Jaskier was in any danger of these creatures because part of him believed the bard to be there. He had beheaded two of them, but the third one had gotten a nasty chunk out of his calf before Geralt had driven the silver through his skull. Moral of the story, he should have restocked on Golden Oriol before facing the monsters and he should have practiced mindfulness to keep Jaskier out of his head for once.

The curious thing about this predicament was that it got easier when Jaskier was actually there. When Geralt could hear his outcries, pleas, songs. He hadn’t to think about Jaskier and his absence because Jaskier was there and at all times in a position where Geralt could assess the danger to his person.

„Fuck this,“ was all Geralt growled when he woke up from his healing trance, no sense of how much time had passed since the attack. He was lucky to find his belongings still there, to find Roach tethered to a nearby tree with a reproachful look in her eyes. The suspicion nagged away at him, and he was not in any mood to turn it into surety. There was a simple fix for the problem and Geralt knew just where to find it. He had a pending job for a kikimora, and he meant to take it. He would need all the money he could get what with how low he was on his elixirs and the constant empty space in his stomach.

So, Geralt collected his belongings, his horse. Collected the coin he was owed for the graviers. Collected his sanity, as much of it as was left that was, and rode to a town called Kerack.

The sun had begun a lazy mid-summer descend when Geralt rode up to the cluster of villas that made up the center of the city. They belonged to various members of Jaskier’s family, the biggest one to his cousin, as Geralt had learned once upon a campfire when he’d felt contented with a stomach full of rabbit and wine, and Jaskier had been chatty, nostalgic. Had told of his hometown and his family and what his childhood had been like. If Jaskier was to be believed, full of flowers and song and banquets and splendor. It was from that very same tale that Geralt could identify the house with its soft edges and cherry-wood coloring. He led Roach through the gates that were open at this time of day, onto a courtyard with a gurgling fountain and several smaller buildings to either side.

“Hey you,” he called out to a servant girl who scurried along with a basket full of raspberries. Her fingers were stained red, but she put the fruit down as Geralt approached her up the gravel path. “Where do I put my horse?”

“You are?” She asked, chewing her bottom lip.

“A visitor of Jaskier’s,” Geralt said and pointed to the house. The shutters swayed softly in the breeze and Geralt could hear home from inside. The first chords of Toss A Coin, a gentle hum. His heart pumped liquid anticipation through his veins and Roach snorted. Easy, girl.

“Who?” the servant girl asked.

“Ja-,” Geralt stopped. Fuck, that wasn’t his real name, was it? “The lord of this house.”

“You’re a friend of Julian’s?”

“I’m the man that song is about,” Geralt said with what he hoped was convincing cheer, but the maid only looked confused and shrank back a little.

“Sir, I’m not sure that-“

“Just take care of the horse dammit,” he grunted and handed her the reins not without receiving an annoyed glare from his horse. I don’t like this any better than you, Geralt thought and made for the front door. Better to get out of here as soon as possible. Preferably with his bard, but he would leave without Jaskier if need be. This place wasn’t for him and he felt it with every step he took.

The foyer was positively decadent and Geralt supposed he should have seen it coming. The tiled floor was almost entirely covered with thick rugs of burgundy-colored yarn, woven to depict faceless characters. Silver-framed doors lined all four walls and a stone staircase led up to a balustraded balcony that was hung with vines of equally silver leaves and flowers. It was a lot and it was revolting. The smell too, thickly sweet like rose perfume and cherry blossoms. Geralt crinkled his nose against it as the entrance door fell shut behind him with a melodic swish. Everything about this place was like stepping into faerie and he didn’t like the goosebumps it gave him one bit.

A persistent cough pulled Geralt’s attention to a man who had emerged from one of the doors. He had neatly combed hazel hair and wore a green tailcoat. A crease tucked his eyebrows together, looking like that was its permanent residence. Geralt found himself looking for pointed ears, immediately had an instinct to grab his silver sword, but he willed his hands to remain at his sides. Unclenched. Miming an ease he hadn’t felt since, well. Since last he’d seen Jaskier probably. And what a night that had been.

“Hi.”

“Excuse me,” the man said, and folded his hands behind his back. “Who would you be?”

“I’m here to see Julian,” Geralt said. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. All these conversational hurdles scraped at his self-control and if he didn’t find Jaskier soon it might just not be worth it.

“That does not answer my question. Who are you?”

“Geralt of Rivia, I’m a… friend.”

“A-ha,” the man said, pointing a triumphant finger in Geralt’s direction. His eyes sparkled with an unearned superiority. “The Butcher of Blaviken himself. What crime has our dear Julian committed for you to come calling.”

“None.” Geralt furrowed his brow. Not this shit again, it wasn’t right. Hadn’t Jaskier ever mentioned him? “I’m here to visit.”

“I don’t think a man of his standing keeps company with a Witcher,” the man said, exposing spotless teeth.

“Geralt?”

They both whipped upward to see Jaskier descending the stairs which an incredulous grin plastered all over his visage. He wore a simple white shirt which looked like it cost more than the outfits he usually travelled in put together. A pair of linen pants that hugged his legs just right. His hair was messy and his eyes shone and fuck, he looked so at ease that it made Geralt melt a little.

“Jask.”

“What in Melitele’s name are you doing here?” Jaskier asked. He brushed right past the other man and all but jumped into Geralt’s arms. Geralt caught him on reflex more than anything, but once Jaskier was in his arms he couldn’t bring it over himself to let go. Rather he held him close for a long moment, breathed in that scent of honey and soap and relished the way Jaskier’s nuzzled his neck. When they broke apart, Geralt felt like a drowning man. Jaskier’s touch was the air he needed to breathe, and only the warm hands that remained glued to his shoulders anchored Geralt. Well, fuck. The nagging suspicion had just turned into rock-solid certainty and Geralt wasn’t here for it. No, nope, no. All that love had ever brought him was pain. He couldn’t do that to Jaskier or himself. And yet, here he was.

“My dear,” Jaskier said, shaking his head. That grin remained stuck to his face. Geralt hummed. “I am a little confused, but all aflutter.”

“Julian?” the man still hovered near them, and he was more than a little confused. Appalled seemed to fit him better what with the upturned nose and the slimy sneer. “Why is there a Witcher here to see you and why, in all the gods’ names, are you hugging him?”

“Oh, come on, William, stop being such a cock. Just because you never listen to me, doesn’t mean I don’t tell you things.”

“That is not-“

“Shush,” Jaskier said with a grin and to Geralt’s surprise, William kept quiet. He had to bite down on the words, puffed out his chest and put on a grimace of utter condescension, but not another word from him. Jaskier’s turned his attention back to Geralt. Broke into a fit of giggles and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck again and, huh, this was new. Jaskier had always been affectionate, generous with his touches, full of adoring words, yes, but he had never been like this. Exhilarated to see Geralt, his heart going a mile a minute. It had been a while. Too long. Fuck. Geralt gently pried Jaskier off himself and put at least two feet between them. Something flickered in Jaskier’s expression, like a candle caught in a gale, then extinguished. His smile remained.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said because he didn’t know what else to say. William coughed.

“Yes.”

“Kikimora, near Brugge.” Geralt cleared his throat. “Thought you might want to tag along.”

“Oh yes, yes, thrice yes. I’d be absolutely delighted to,” Jaskier squealed and grabbed Geralt’s hand, tugging him towards the stairs under William’s disapproving eyes. Geralt bared his teeth at the man and was pleased to notice the tiniest spike of adrenaline in his bloodstream, the shift of muscle ready for flight.

“Where are we going?” Geralt asked. He hadn’t come for a house tour. He had come to pick up his bard and be off into another sunset. Long nights by crackling fires and cuddled up for warmth. Songs to adorn the first light of day and company on the road. Jaskier’s hand on his thighs as he laughed about one of his own jokes. No, that wasn’t right.

Geralt had come to let Jaskier know he was allowed to follow and then find and finish that job. Collect his coin and then onto the next thing whether the bard came along or not. It was simple and Geralt hated how hollow it felt. He much preferred the first version, Vesemir forgive him.

“Well,” Jaskier drawled as they climbed the creaky wooden steps. “I thought you’d enjoy a hot bath while I pack. You look like hell on two feet and I’m guessing whatever monster hunt you’re coming from wasn’t particularly pleasant judging by the color of your face. A little comfort before we leave?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s heart fluttered. He wasn’t used to this kind of care, this unquestioning kind of understanding. He would have been fine going back to the trail like he was, with the bite still taut on his shoulder and the fatigue deep in his marrow, but he could be better. And that was Jaskier for him, making everything about this life better (and indefinitely more confusing, but Geralt would figure out how to be rid of these feelings, he always did).

“William, have the girls prepare a bath,” Jaskier said. They reached the balustraded corridor that lead to wooden double doors on either side. Jaskier took a left turn, his hand still warm around Geralt’s wrist.

“Please,” William snorted. “You cannot mean to leave with this… this, uhm… him.”

“I can and I will.”

“Not tonight-“

“The bath, William, or I will make sure you can spend the next week shoveling horse shit” Jaskier said and pushed open the door to a sun-flooded room that was all velvety surfaces and more of that honey and soap scent. A giant double bed sat in front of a window that spanned most of the back wall, a dresser and a man-sized mirror to the right, and an arrangement of couches to the left. Jaskier’s lute sat comfortably in its case on one of them. There were clothes everywhere. Geralt huffed.

“Yeah, sorry,” Jaskier said and closed the door. “It got a little messy. But no matter. Welcome to this mine humble dwelling. Sit if you like-“ he gestured to the couches then dragged Geralt towards the bed, gently pushing him down. From the way Jaskier’s body curved towards him, Geralt almost expected him to climb onto his lap, just Jaskier things really, and he readied himself to catch him and hold him against his chest and never let go, but then Jaskier leaned away and started to pace the room, frantically picking up articles of clothing, jewelry, the odd lute string. “Your bath should be ready soon. How is Roach, the old girl, did you leave her with the stable boys? They really do take good care of the horses. I mean, of course we pay them for it, but honestly, good service is hard to find these days.”

“So,” Geralt interrupted because with his nose, his heart, his eyes full of Jaskier, he needed to keep his head clear for this to go well. Back to the well-known territory of the road and songs. This was… new, and Geralt wasn’t sure he liked it. “You’re super rich.”

“Well, yes and no. Technically, the estate and everything still belong to my mother. Will be mine upon her passing, but I don’t much care for it, I only come here to rest my feet so to speak.”

“And she pays for your ridiculous outfits?”

“She does pay for them,” Jaskier admitted, a faint blush clinging to his cheeks. “Anyway, I cannot perhaps convince you to stay for dinner?”

“Absolutely not,” Geralt said and let himself fall to back to the mattress. It was too soft for his hard-worn spine, and yet it had a magic about it, draining all tension from his shoulders. Unsettling. Geralt closed his eyes and listened to Jaskier’s frantic movements, to and fro, stringing the lute, opening and closing drawers, humming under his breath. This was familiar and Geralt smiled a little. He really could use that bath, but afterward they’d be off. No discussion.

“It’s just… mother is having guests over and I promised to be there,” Jaskier said at some point, and the bed dipped next to Geralt as it admitted his light weight. A palm settled over Geralt’s chest and he popped an eye open. Jaskier leaned halfway over him with a pliant sort of smile and the widest puppy eyes he could conjure. There was magic there too in the glow of his cheeks and the tilt of his head and Geralt could have simply stared at him, but he didn’t. Wouldn’t, fuck, he wouldn’t.

“I don’t do fancy dinners,” he grunted instead, using his irritation at himself as disdain to paste onto his features. Jaskier’s face fell and he got back up.

“It’s just… my birthday.”

“What?”

“It’s my birthday.”

Well, fuck.

A hot bath and more pouty lips, a set of borrowed clothes that caressed Geralt's rough skin, and a stream of conscience-demoralizing comments later, Geralt yielded. He supposed this was his punishment for falling in love with a stupid man and his stupid songs. So it was that they set out, not for adventure and campfires, but for a pretentious dinner with pretentious people in a pretentious household. How Jaskier was comfortable here evaded Geralt.

The dining room was basked in a cozy kind of fire light, the one Geralt usually associated with calmed down inns by the roadside and long nights listening to Jaskier’s singing. A few ales. But everything else about it was way beyond the places he usually frequented. Portraits of Jaskier’s ancestors lined one wall, there was a huge window to the garden, the same direction as Jaskier’s window. The chairs were upholstered in a rich raspberry velvet and golden accents were thrown by the chandelier that dangled from the ceiling, candles burning in brass holders. Geralt huffed. There was another rug, woven by pixies no doubt, as it curled against Geralt’s borrowed boots when he stepped into the room. But the rich furnishings weren’t even what made him most uncomfortable. No, it was the collective gaze of seven other people who looked up as he and Jaskier entered. Jaskier’s arm looped through Geralt’s. There was William and then there were six women, ranging in age and poise and amount of make-up they had smashed their faces into.

“Hello everyone,” Jaskier twittered and tore himself free from Geralt only to hold out a chair for him in all his gentlemanly charm. Geralt huffed again. He wasn’t some maiden to be wooed. Well, he was already wooed. Jaskier really didn’t need to try so hard.

“Julian,” one of the women said, not in an unfriendly manner. She wore a broad-brimmed, aubergine hat trimmed with white lace, her lips colored in the same tone which made her look like a member of the Chapter rather than what Geralt supposed she really was. Her place at the head of the table and her amethyst ring made it clear she was the lady of this household and she had Jaskier’s features, the bright eyes, the short mouth. Something about her was off though. “Did you bring a guest?”

A cluster of three girls, because they were so young Geralt hardly dared to call them women, giggled. The fourth one didn’t, simply stared at Geralt with a wide-eyed curiosity, and if the others were girls, she was a child. Barely older than twelve. Maximum.

“Yes, Julian, why don’t you introduce us,” one of the girls squealed. She had eyes like emeralds and lush brown curls that spilled from an intricate hair dress. Her corset had to be stifling, but the way she pushed her chest out as Jaskier looked at her told Geralt all he needed to know. One blink of an eye in which his brain was still caught up on the rational, processing the objective reality of this situation, until, with a vengeance, the emotional connection build up, his nerve ends all but igniting his blood. Oh, fuck, no. He couldn’t realize his feelings for Jaskier, then watch some bejeweled whores compete for his attention for hours on end, and all in the span of one evening. Geralt wasn’t an emotional man, or so he would have liked to think, but this would be taxing. The one thing to hold him steady as he sat, Jaskier’s hands lingering on his shoulders, was the fact that nothing about Jaskier – flimsy, flirty Jaskier – pointed to interest on his side. A relief, if but a small one.

Jaskier cleared his throat and his grip on Geralt’s shoulders tightened. He’s nervous, Geralt realized, a spike of spicy anxiety rising from Jaskier’s skin. He wants to be here almost as much as I do, which is not at all.

“Ladies,” he said with nothing of his usual sing-song softness, anchoring himself on Geralt. His nails sharp as they dug through the soft cotton. “This is Geralt. He’s a Witcher, but he’s really just a nice person, so behave.”

“Your new bodyguard?” the lest-bedecked of the three girls asked with a raised brow, and the other two fanned themselves with equal glances of disapproval. Geralt was fine with it, really. He wasn’t here for them nor to defend the virtue of Witchers. Jaskier, however, might just start a riot over it.

“My very good friend,” Jaskier said through clenched teeth, and turning, “Geralt, may I introduce,” he pointed at the woman with the hat – “My mother, the Viscountess de Lettenhove and next to her my lovely aunt, mother to the royal instigator of Kerack-“ Geralt dipped his chin in their direction. The name Lettenhove rang some distant bell in his head, but he couldn’t grasp it, feeling suddenly too big for this room, too brutish. This wasn’t level playing field and no amount of reaching for a sword that wasn’t there would help him out. He’d only Jaskier to cling to. “These three are daughters of various earls in the county and friends, Lynn –“ the reasonable looking one Geralt noted, the other two he didn’t bother to learn their names, could better distinguish them by the colors they wore and the perfumes they had basked in. Emerald, lemongrass. Sapphire, lavender. Who cared anyway? “And this is my darling sister.” The smallest of the girls blushed furiously, deer-eyed.

“Nice to meet you, mylady,” he said and bowed a little which made her burst into a startled giggle. The other girls eyed him with suspicion still and Geralt took comfort in the fact the he would be able to blast off their faces with a well-placed Igni if things got out of hand. He smiled tightly at them and briefly covered Jaskier’s claw with his own palm. It relaxed under that touch and Jaskier puffed out a nervous laugh.

“Well, now that’s that out of the way, let’s get to dinner, shall we?” he asked and sat with a flourish, regaining his whimsy momentarily. “William, the wine please.” And so began one of the longest evenings Geralt had ever lived through.

The food was fine, that wasn't the issue.

Jaskier engaged him in a lengthy conversation on his last hunt, that was nice as Jaskier did most of the talking and it kept the others out of the conversation by way of gruesome details.

The girls giggled and squealed and exchanged anecdotes of court gossip and that was the usual boring behavior of common nobles.

The wine brought some looseness to Geralt's stiff shoulders and that was the least he could hope for. 

What was truly taxing was the platitudes he had to exchange with the other guests whenever Jaskier was caught up in something – And you, Sir Witcher, what do you think of the news from Nilfgaard? The Lioness of Cintra truly has them in her grasp no? - And you, Sir Witcher, how are you finding the change of seasons? It is just so hard on my dry skin. - And you, Sir Witcher, how do you plan to spend the winter? - and on it went. Mix that with the overload of exposed cleavage – which would suit Geralt well under different circumstances – and the constant advances towards a certain bard, and Geralt's patience was quickly wearing thin. He wolfed down his meat and sipped his wine. He even got better at faking a smile. Part of him wanted to flee, part of him wanted to pull Jaskier out of the seat, bend him over the very table they ate at and claim him as his own, no matter the audience. Because of the audience. But he didn't and why?

Geralt glanced to his left and was met with a dazzling smile that he hit like a brick wall and then he knew why. Fucking love, stupid and hellish and not suited for him.

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the room split up, opened into several patches of hushed conversations and sips of stronger things than wine. The two girls dragged Jaskier to a corner couch and started to interrogate him on various subjects regarding the county, the year’s festivals, who he intended to take to his cousin’s summer ball, and Geralt couldn’t stand their high-pitched inquiries for longer than five minutes. The other four had split into pairs and William had disappeared.

Geralt didn’t feel awkward, but he realized he had no place in this scene and so he moved to the window to look out into the night, but was faced only with his own reflection that scowled back at him. He kneaded his bad shoulder and took a sip of whiskey which burned at the back of his throat but dulled down the unease he felt at the giggles behind his back, the nervous laughter Jaskier returned. He knew his bard. Give him another glass of this and he would fall prey to their long lashes and curved waists. Jaskier might not be in love with either of them, but when had he been able to resist a pretty face and an improper offer? Fuck, this was hard. Geralt put the glass aside lest he crush it and worked to let the world blur, grow fuzzy around the edges.

The fire- and candlelight, nothing more than a flicker in the back of his mind.

The chatter, a distant hum under the skin of his neck.

The heartache, just a few bug bites, outlining his collar bone.

Soon, they’d be out of here at any rate, and if Jaskier smelled of lavender or lemon rather than honey and soap, well. Geralt would simply attribute it to a new perfume and no harm done.

His feeble grip on meditation wavered when Jaskier surprised him by untangling himself from the mess of flirtations and veiled compliments, and walked up to Geralt’s side. The world still a blur with Jaskier sharply outlined against it, all harsh sensation that had Geralt wish for more whiskey.

“Gods, when will they get off my chest,” Jaskier murmured, his tone colored with annoyance. Geralt wanted to drink it off his lips. Fuck, the wine and the fire and Jaskier’s intoxicating smell were making him loose-limbed and yearning. They caught each other’s eyes over their shoulders and Jaskier pleaded silently with him. Can you not do something about this? You who always has my back, you who never lets me down. Geralt screwed up his face. His ear twitched as he honed in on the two girls’ conversation. What do you think they’re talking about? – I don’t know. – They’re pretty close, are they not? – Julian keeps strange company. – He won’t once I am his wife. – Ah, you are too funny my friend.

Geralt quelled the anger that rose in his chest at the implication. He was a simple man. He loved Jaskier. He didn’t want to share Jaskier. Here was an opportunity to make sure he didn’t have to and to help out a friend.

“They mean to marry you?”

“Yeah, I guess. Not that I’m very keen on it,” Jaskier said with a shrug.

“There might be a way to discourage them,” Geralt said under his breath. “They’re listening, play along.”

“Are you actually having an idea?” came the gleeful reply.

“Just… follow my lead.”

“I always do, sweetheart,” Jaskier said with a wink and Geralt let his shoulders droop, bit his lower lip. He knew the effect this could have on women, an unsure tremble, a glimpse of anxiety. Jaskier’s joy fell. “What is it?”

“Jask,” he said, raising his voice enough that it would travel the distance. Jaskier followed suit.

“What?”

“Is today really your birthday?”

“Well, yes…“

“Why didn’t you-“ Geralt forced his voice to quiver and break. The girls’ voices hushed, overshadowed by the crackle of the firewood and the giggles of Lynn and Jaskier’s sister. If Geralt wanted to, he could have spied them out, could even have picked the words from the lips of the older women at the back of the room, but he had to focus on playing the role and playing it well. Jaskier, from the looks of it, either bought it or was a fucking brilliant actor. He looked just the right amount of heartbroken. Geralt took a shaky breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered. It doesn’t to me. It’s not like we’ve done birthdays before.”

“It matters,” Geralt said and looked out of the window. Back at Jaskier whose brow was furrowed. The heat of the room was getting to him now, Geralt itched to get some fresh air. Ride as far away from this place as possible, preferably with Jaskier in his arms. But this was precarious, this was society. And from the nervous energy wafting off them, Geralt could tell he had the girls’ attention now. He made sure they heard.

“It does?” Jaskier asked.

“Yes. I would have liked to give you a gift. Perhaps that fiddle you always talk of.”

“My dear Witcher, that exact model costs at least, hm.” Jaskier tapped his finger against his lips, then at Geralt’s nose. Geralt stared at the spot, cross-eyed. Fuck. “Twelve Griffins.”

“I would have killed twice as many for your joy.”

Jaskier blinked at him, stunned. Melitele, but he almost had Geralt believe him, Geralt who had initiated this act, Geralt who had seen Jaskier wrap kings around his little finger with caramelized words and scandalous little smirks. Geralt who would have wiped all the world from monsters if it meant Jaskier would keep looking at him this awe-struck. Would keep touching Geralt in ways he had never thought desirable.

“I would tear the whole fucking continent apart to buy you that fiddle,” Geralt said because the words needed out. He had never felt this way before, and he couldn’t keep them in, and he couldn’t win this fight, not against himself, couldn’t. The act gave him the perfect stage. Jaskier’s face fell into something indiscernible. A little crease between the brows, a delicious flush of red down his pale neck. Then, he broke into a wobbly smile and stepped closer, so close that they shared a breath and all the room fell away. Geralt was caught in the death-whirl of those blue eyes, the endless downward spiral of want, need, love, fuck, want, happy, pain, want, want, want. Need.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered and his lute-hardened fingers brushed along Geralt’s jaw. He made an incoherent noise, let his eyes fall shut, tilted his head down to meet Jaskier’s wine-stained lips-

“Julian, Julian!” someone shrieked, and they broke apart with gasps, staring at each other, bewildered. The girls had shot up from their position on their couch and now bore down on them. “Julian, play us a song! It’s been so long since we have heard you on the piano.”

“Well, uh,” Jaskier stuttered. He cleared his throat and straightened his shirt, stepped out of Geralt’s space. No. Still wanted, still needed. Fuck. Geralt closed his eyes again.

“Pretty please?” one of the girls squealed.

“My dears, I haven’t graced the keys in years.”

Geralt furrowed his brow. Jaskier didn’t play the piano, did he? On top of the fiddle and the flute and the lute and all the other instruments Geralt couldn’t even name. Fucking wild. Stupid, unnecessary. All he needed was for Jaskier to grace him, let his fingers dance over his skin. Useless talents, probably the reason Jaskier had almost bitten the dust at so many points in their acquaintance and yet Geralt was strangely intrigued. Music was so far out of his reach that he could only marvel at one who so benignly mastered it.

“Please, one of your famous songs. You make the piano sing so lovely,” one of the girls said.

“Pleeeease,” the other joined.

“Alright, alright. Geralt?”

Geralt squinted at Jaskier who had his fists clenched at his sides. That flush still clung to his neck and Geralt wanted to bite at it, kiss it, taste it. Oh, how Jaskier had cursed him. “Hmm?”

“What’s your favorite song?”

“Waterlily Meadow,” Geralt said because it was the only one that came to his mind. Then he remembered his act. The girl’s stares burned holes into him. Good. “That’s my little songbird, always ready to perform.” And for good measure, he leaned down and placed a noisy kiss on Jaskier’s cheek to which the bard responded with a surprised squeak.

“Well, I am all aflutter.” Geralt rolled his eyes and watched with his heart still in a stampede as Jaskier twittered his way to a piano in the corner, a piece of furniture Geralt's eyes had somehow glazed over entirely until now. It was a sleek thing of blackened mahogany which welcomed Jaskier with a creak as he opened it. Geralt leaned back against the window, arms crossed. Jaskier popped his knuckles and put his fingers to the keys.

It was an entirely different song. The melody was the same, but it was woven through with richer chords, more deep notes that caressed the air of the room and seemed to mingle with the candlelight, the lingering aroma of caramelized pork and fried potatoes. It was strangely soothing even to Geralt, more so because the act of playing finally seemed to put Jaskier at ease, the way he hadn't been since they'd left his room that afternoon. That pliant smile once more, the loose shoulders, half-lidded eyes and fuck, but Geralt revoked his earlier thought. He wouldn't have Jaskier on the table, no, he would have him on that piano. Only in his dreams, of course. But the image gave him pleasure, to think of the aghast faces of the girls, Jaskier begging him, the instrument bending and creaking. Geralt pinched himself in the side. Better not to dwell on it.

It was this cursed song, lulling him into some fantasy world. Again, Geralt had a sense of faerie, not just with the luminous aura around Jaskier, but with the room, the incense-like smells. How Jaskier's mother looked like she was his twin sister rather than however many decades his senior. No.

This was likely the fatigue speaking. It had been a long and strangely tumultuous day and Geralt was imagining things. What would he have given for a good punch in the face by his old teacher. Or a plunge in an icy stream. Just something to help him shake off this magic.

When Jaskier stopped playing, the whole room held its breath. Even Geralt, as he glanced at the others. By sheer force of will did he keep his heartbeat steady as he saw Jaskier’s mother and aunt exchange low whispers, as he saw Jaskier’s sister giggle with Lynn and the two girls flushed to an extent where they seemed about ready to pass out. Geralt sniffed against the onslaught off spicy hormones and sour sweat that wafted off them. Held his breath and waited for the hairs on his arms to settle down and did all he could not to fixate upon Jaskier again.

You still have a part to play, he thought bitterly. Fuck, but he was a terrible actor. You cannot forsake Jaskier, you always always save him. Simply stop acting. The truth is as good as any act.

Geralt growled as he finally exhaled and all the room stared at him, Jaskier included. Jaskier with his wine-flushed cheeks and his eyes sparkling from the high of an excellent song, performed to its utmost beauty.

When Geralt did not add anything to this, the attention quickly wandered back to Jaskier. The girls began to giggle and swarm around him and white-hot anger ignited Geralt’s skin. They had no right to lean over him like that, no right to press their perfume-soaked bosoms into his face. Jaskier was fighting teeth and nails to fend them off, but to no avail. Their dresses built a cage around him, their giggles a wall.

“Julian,” the brunette said. “Oh, Julian, that was beautiful. Will you write me a love song?”

“No,” the other squealed. “No, me first.”

Jaskier glanced over at Geralt, full of silent pleas.

One more time, Witcher. Save me just one more time.

Geralt shook his head. He almost had an urge to laugh, this was ridiculous. He was no society man. Fine dinners and eligible ladies were so far out of his area of expertise that he had half a mind to walk out the door and be done with it. But that would be the equivalent of leaving Jaskier for the wolves to devour. Etiquette and manners, Geralt failed at. Possessive aggression he could do. After all, he was a man in love, no matter how much it pained him to admit this.

“I cannot bear this anymore,” he said and stalked towards the group of three, clustered on the stool. The girls looked up at him, Jaskier didn’t. “Get your hands off him.”

“Why would we?” the brunette said.

“Yes. You have no claim to him,” the other squealed, though not in delight anymore. Geralt had come to the conclusion that this was simply the extent of her vocal capabilities.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted and raised an eyebrow. “Jask?” When Jaskier looked up, Geralt’s feeble grip on himself shattered. His heart stuttered, then stopped, then tried to win a Temerian horse race. Fuck. The wide eyes, the quivering lips. He thought back to his promise, not even half an hour before. He would more than tear the continent apart for this man. He would tear himself apart and for no other reason than to make Jaskier happy. A silent tear glided down Jaskier’s cheek and the girls gasped. Geralt wanted to kiss it away.

“Julian?”

“He,” Jaskier choked out, held a hand to his heart. Geralt almost believed him. Wanted to believe him so badly. “He has every claim to me.” And Jaskier squeezed out of the space between the piano and the stool and threw himself at Geralt who caught him easily, sobbing into his chest. “I’m so sorry, love.”

The rest of the room had fallen silent, only the nervous crackle of the hearth and the six heartbeats to tug at Geralt’s eardrums. He could feel their eyes on them, smell the acidy mix of shock and anger. He didn’t give a fuck for them. Jaskier’s family or not, they had no right to his happiness. Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and pressed his cheek against the bard’s head.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“What?” second girl shrieked and, wow, that was a new kind of noise.

“Huh?” the brunette gaped. Only Lynn managed a coherent sentence, staring up from the atlas she and Jaskier’s sister had been sifting through.

“So, you are the reason he won’t marry any of us.”

“Yes,” Geralt said. “Now, if you will excuse us _. Julian_ has had quite enough emotional turmoil for one evening. I bid you all good night.” Geralt nodded at each of the present faces. The two girls glowered at him, Lynn and Jaskier’s sister wore expressionless masks. Jaskier’s aunt gaped at Geralt. His mother winked at him, the only person in the room who seemed comfortable with the development. With steady hands, Geralt guided the still sobbing Jaskier out of the room. They passed William in the hallway who was equally aghast and angry with red ears and a snarl.

“Sir Witcher this is not-“

“William,” Geralt said curtly and steered Jaskier towards the stairs. He was losing steam on the fake-sobs which sounded more and more like the little giggles he couldn’t gain control over whenever he’d had an ale too many. “Fuck off.” And for good measure, Geralt bent down low, wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s legs and swept him up, half over his shoulder, half clutching his back. “Good night.”

And off they were, up the stairs and to the only safe space in the house. If Geralt had been feeling a little less drowsy from the wine, he would have walked right out the front door, would have mounted Roach with Jaskier still in his arms and ridden into the night. But he couldn’t quite say no to a warm bed and a sturdy roof over his head, not after the long weeks he had spent in the forests up north, scraping together trophies that barely managed to feed his horse. Not after those feverish nights in the undergrowth after the graviers. The warm body pressed up against his chest and shoulders was the final nail in that particular coffin.

By the time they were back in Jaskier's room, cleaned up now, William no doubt, the bard's giggles had turned into genuine laughter as Geralt threw him onto the bed.

“That was the best birthday dinner of my life,” he said, pulling off his shoes and climbing up further. He patted the space next to him.

“Hmm.”

“Ah, aren't the stars just wondrous tonight.” A small sigh and Jaskier melted against the headboard. Geralt pulled off his own boots, then clambered after Jaskier. He had every intention of laying down and going to sleep, but something made him mirror Jaskier's posture. Watching him watching the night sky. Something tugged at his heart and he gave into it.

“Jask?”

“Yeah?” Jaskier asked and he was a little breathless, giddy with the alcohol and the day’s excitements no doubt. Geralt was at a loss. He could not comprehend Jaskier, this mercurial being with his endless well of energy and love and cheer. With his flushed cheeks and his vast sky for eyes that always shimmered like he knew something no one else did. The easy smile. Geralt’s eyes flitted to the stars and then back to Jaskier. He knew what was more wondrous to him. Fuck, but the feeling made him uncomfortable. His heart fucking ached, and he had no potion for it.

“Will you marry one of them… eventually?”

“No way in hell.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Jaskier laughed and he picked Geralt’s hand off the bed and brought the knuckles to his lips. “I am _your_ little songbird.”

“Hmm.”

…

“Geralt?”

“Yeah?”

“What is your actual favorite song?”

Geralt hesitated, shuffling through them. There were ones he liked more or less, but in truth he hated them all. It wasn’t the songs he cared about, it was the singer. Jaskier could sing any old lullaby and Geralt would listen simply to hear the sound of his voice. He sighed, melting under the warm slide of Jaskier’s lips on his roughened skin. The alcohol, yes. Geralt couldn’t get used to this. He sighed again, fighting against the struggle, the enticing glimmer of Jaskier’s gaze. Fought against the little grin that tugged at the bard’s mouth as if Geralt could control it. It made his cheeks feel hot.

“Well?”

“You are.”

Jaskier blinked. Then realization smoothed out his features and the grin prevailed. He dropped Geralt’s hand in favor of clambering on top of the Witcher’s lap, all lithe limbs and honey scent. Geralt kept his hands clenched at his sides. Dangerous territory this. A stuck-up Witcher and an intoxicated flirt couldn’t possibly make for a good combination.

“My dear,” Jaskier said. “I have yet to thank you for so gallantly saving my ass. Again. It was quite clever of you to come up with that scheme. Pretending to be my angry lover and all.” Jaskier put his palms to Geralt’s chest and leaned closer. His cheek grazed against Geralt’s and his breath was hot against Geralt’s ear as he continued, “Quite clever. Tell me, love, how much of it was an act?” Small kisses along his jawline, hands that roamed over Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt’s cock gave a feeble twitch. Fuck, but he should put a stop to this. He wasn’t going to lose Jaskier over a night of great sex. He wasn’t. He. Fuck. Geralt’s mouth ran away with it.

“I still owe you a birthday present,” he rasped and reveled in the way Jaskier stiffened against him, the spike of hormones, their musky smell arousing Geralt even further. There was still a door out of this, but it was rapidly closing. Jaskier wanted this. Geralt’s hands came up to the bard’s waist, slipping under his shirt. Cold skin met his hands, a gift for his overheating body and Jaskier gave a little squeak. He drew back a fraction, their noses touched. Their lips were an inch apart and still Geralt was caught in that endless gaze. Jaskier swallowed heavily and gods, what would it be to have those lips wrapped around his cock, sucking, singing. Geralt rubbed his thumb over Jaskier’s lowest rib. Jaskier shuddered.

“Well,” Jaskier said, his tone thick with lust. Geralt’s finger found a stiff nipple and oh that noise was exquisite, he absolutely needed to hear it again. His erection swelled, pressing up against the fabric of these stupid pants, pressing up against Jaskier. “I have two wishes.”

“Greedy,” Geralt replied. He jerked his chin forward, so close now but not touching, not yet. Jaskier gave a frustrated huff, his palms coming up to wrap around Geralt’s neck.

“You will grant them,” Jaskier said. His eyes had fallen shut and his voice was whiny now, high-pitched and needy and Geralt wanted so desperately to surge forward and kiss him, but he also loved this, the electric suspense that shot up and down his spine, the low fire in his gut that thrashed and demanded attention. How Jaskier’s body kept jerking closer and closer. Still, neither of them dared to break the barrier. They both knew that there would be no going back from there. They would collide and wreak havoc and Geralt wasn’t sure he could deal with the aftermath.

“First, tell me the truth. How much of it was an act to, uh, you?” Jaskier asked and Geralt ran his thumb over the nipple again as he did, basking in the way Jaskier’s cock pressed against his belly at the stimulation.

“Not a single word,” Geralt growled and he let their lips brush together, the faintest of touches that had them both gasp. Fuck. Just what the fuck. It couldn’t just be the alcohol now, even drunk Geralt had never reacted this strongly to a touch that was less than a kiss. So much more with Jaskier.

“You’re joking,” Jaskier said. His eyes were half-lidded and full of ecstatic want and Geralt could read it everywhere on Jaskier’s form. In the way he arched into Geralt’s touch, chest, hands, space, the way his cheeks were plump, blossoms of red high in them, the way his breath was shallow now and the hormonal scents that got tangled up with his natural ones which made Geralt fucking dizzy. The way Jaskier’s thighs squeezed around Geralt’s for more friction, how his hands tugged at Geralt’s shirt. It was a beautiful symphony of fluttering lashes and soft little skipped beats of his frantic heart and Geralt knew, he just knew. But he waited because Jaskier had to know too.

“I wouldn’t, not with you.”

“Hah,” Jaskier said, erratic, words stumbling. “There has been many a joke about my person over the years. In fact, I think it’s one of the only things I’ve ever heard you joking about.”

“I wouldn’t joke about my feelings for you, then,” Geralt admitted, nipping at Jaskier’s jaw.

“Fine. My second wish then. Kiss me.” And that was the cue Geralt needed. His last strains of inhibition snapped, flailed in the wind of his rushing desire, then dissipated as he claimed Jaskier’s lips, kissing, sucking, sliding tongues as they sank down into the mattress and made away with the day’s events by devouring each other. Jaskier made the most exquisite little noises, a harmony of sighs and moans and subtle shifts of his bones that had Geralt’s insides twisting with want, his crotch painful and aching.

“Let’s get this off you, hm?” Jaskier said in between kisses and tugged at Geralt’s shirt. He sat back on his heels to slip out of his own, exposing moon-kissed skin taut over a semblance of muscles that had only formed in the last years of traveling. A long pale neck that demanded Geralt bite down on it, but he didn’t, he held back, made quick work of the garbs Jaskier had lent him and ere he knew it there they were.

“You’re beautiful,” Geralt managed, stretching out his arms. What use was Jaskier up there, staring at him? None, fuck, none at all. He needed him back in his arms, needed those lips to grace his, needed, needed, needed. Seemed they were both more than greedy.

“Fuck,” Jaskier groaned, sliding along Geralt’s body to reclaim his mouth in a rough kiss that was all teeth and no mercy. Their tongues battled, their lips rubbed raw and Jaskier’s hand were everywhere. Geralt lost all sense of space and reality with Jaskier’s smell filling his head and the heat of his lithe body pressed up against him. Arms against arms, hips against hips, thighs interlocked. It was so much and not enough and Geralt grunted in agreement to the sentiment because, shit, he was going to combust with want. He grabbed Jaskier’s ass and lifted the bard half an inch, then ground their bodies together. His cock swelled and ached and jubilated with the friction. But of course, it wasn’t enough, not nearly. Geralt did it again, they both grunted into each other’s mouths. Kissed, soft and slow, and fast and frantic, and still that didn’t do. Geralt needed to, hell. He needed everything.

Jaskier seemed to agree as he momentarily pulled back, leaned over the side of the bed to rummage in a nightstand drawer and of course Jaskier would be prepared for something like this. He handed Geralt a vial of oily liquid and went back to kissing him with a newfound sort of patience that had Geralt’s toes curl, something deep within his chest stir. It brought tears to the corners of his eyes, Jaskier’s hands on his chest, caressing, his lips in silent song against Geralt’s. A sun, a moon, no matter. Nourishment. Fuck.

Geralt popped open the vial with one hand, the other holding Jaskier in place, cupping his shoulder blade. He soaked his hand in the liquid, spilling it onto the sheets and put the thing aside as he found Jaskier’s bottom, parting the trembing muscle to find entrance into his body.

„Geralt,“ Jaskier said, awfully close to being whiny. „Geralt, please.“

„What?“

„ _More_.“

Geralt complied, added a second finger and gently, but not without urgency began to loosen up Jaskier who wound himself, moved against Geralt’s hand.

„Jask.“

„What?“

„Relax,“ Geralt murmured against swollen lips, keeping his voice low and viscose and Jaskier took a moment, but then he melted against Geralt’s body. Buttery and warm and sweet and his tongue was that too, and his body around Geralt’s gently probing fingers was pliant and that was all it took for Geralt to feel sappy enough to consider a hushed confession of love. But then he hit a something within Jaskier and Jaskier moaned and that took all the romance away, something Geralt was entirely grateful for. He added a third finger and they stayed in that limbo for a while, Jaskier squirming and shifting against Geralt, their cocks lazily sliding together, until they were both to the end of their patience.

Geralt pulled out his hand, and Jaskier sat back again, sinking down onto Geralt’s cock with a long drawn-out sigh. His body tensed against the intrusion, then fully relaxed, pure bliss drawing out Jaskier’s features into an angelic picture, and Geralt fought not to come right there on the spot. This was why he didn’t do love. It got him awfully close to losing his self-control, the one thing he took pride in.

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier keened when Geralt jerked his hips upward, meeting the slam of Jaskier’s body halfway. They met in a supernova, stars everywhere and Geralt thought he heard a fucking choir to bless the end of the universe. “Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Call me Julian again.”

“No,” Geralt groaned, throwing his head back as he gripped Jaskier’s waist, no doubt leaving angry hand prints, but the bard arched into him, did another of those glorious thrusts, and another and he was picking up the pace, and gods, but he was good at this.

“Please.”

Geralt couldn’t. He didn’t know that version of Jaskier, didn’t like him all that much. He definitely didn’t have his cock buried in Julian’s body, no. This was Jaskier riding him like his life depended on it, Jaskier whose songs drove him mad, Jaskier who would have claim to any part of Geralt henceforth. A semi-renowned bard, a vagabond, a free spirit. Not some nobleman.

“Why not,” Jaskier panted, splaying his palms over Geralt’s chest. Eyes half-lidded, his chest flushed with emotion. Hard moans escaped him with each thrust and fuck, but Geralt wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer. His body was ablaze with sensation.

“Because,” Geralt said, working to lift Jaskier’s body with his upward arches, “That’s not you.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, reduced to little whimpers and Geralt had enough of this. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s form and flipped them over, covered the bard’s body with his own, skin to skin from forehead to toe and he rutted into him with reckless abandon. The scent of honey filled his every pore, the ragged noises Jaskier made became his whole universe. Those claws were back, raking down his backside and Geralt claimed Jaskier’s mouth in a last, desperate, hungry, broken, fucking brilliant, stupid, tongue-sliding kiss before he came with a long groan and so did Jaskier. Babbling nonsense as Geralt gently rocked through his orgasm and quieting only when the Witcher collapsed on top of him, goo for bones. Fucking hell. Fuck. Just. Fuck.

“I agree,” Jaskier panted. “We should pretend-date more often.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh,” Geralt said halting the horse. Jaskier, a little off kilter, slammed into his back with an indignant shriek. They weren’t even out of town, sleep still clinging to their limbs like the sun to the distant horizon. Unwilling to rise and let the day commence, but Geralt had shooed Jaskier out of the house as soon as he was up, not without stealing some breakfast from under William’s nose. He wanted out of there and took claim only to the memories that lay after they’d gone upstairs. Everything before was too embarrassing, too much of an emotional tempest for him to want to retain.

“What the fuck, Geralt?” Jaskier exclaimed, righting himself. Roach snorted, not at all happy to carry double. He’d let her grow too comfortable with life.

“I remember now.” It had been a distant memory, two decades past give or take a few years. The vague outline of a face. A nobleman’s name that was wont to slide from Geralt’s mind. A raspy voice full of despair, not at all like the nightingale perched behind him.

“Remember what?” Jaskier asked. Geralt turned to look at him over his shoulders and was surprised to find that the previous night had done nothing to still his urge to grab Jaskier’s jaw and kiss him stupid. So, it was love, after all. Fucking hell. Jaskier raised an eyebrow and Geralt tore himself away, back to the road ahead. He nudged Roach and she set off again, eager to leave the houses behind in favor of the wilderness.

“Lettenhove,” Geralt said. “The name seemed familiar.”

“I mean, my cousin isn’t the most important man in the North, but he is well-known. Especially his achievements on the-“

“That’s not it. It was your father. He found me and a colleague in a dusty tavern in Novigrad one day. Introduced himself as the Viscount de Lettenhove and told us he needed our help.” The memory came into focus the more he thought about it. Bright blue eyes. A voice drenched in despair.

“My father. You met my father,” Jaskier said, sounding skeptical. “That is so weird, I haven’t even met my father.”

“Only in passing. Came to me because some angry sorcerer had cursed his wife and son.” Though he couldn’t remember the kind of curse it had been as he’d given the job over to Lambert, being called on more urgent business up near Vengerberg. He would have to ask Lambert come winter.

“I am not cursed,” Jaskier said indignantly, wrapping his arms around the Witcher’s middle. Geralt’s mouth twitched.

“I am,” he said. “With you.”

“You take that back or I won’t talk to you ever again.” The words were harsh, offended, but Jaskier’s forehead was warm as it came to rest against Geralt’s neck, his hands gentle as they pulled just a little tighter.

“Suits me just fine,” Geralt said. He’d had enough of talking to last him through the rest of the year.


End file.
